Thursday, November 29, 2018
Too Drunk To. by Karen Cline-Tardiff
He slurred over her body, ravenous
for the cherry at the bottom of
her whiskey sour, half-drunk
With rheumy eyes and meaty hands
that couldn’t hold a swizzle stick,
much less his flaccid ego
While she lay contorted among
the spilled ruins of stale butts and
sticky liquers and forthcoming
He looks like his name would be Buck, big and barrel-chested, his belly bulging over a gold steer-head belt buckle, boots long, poin...
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